I Blame Lara Croft by The Qmoq

Please don't read if easily offended, obviously. If you enjoy this story, please contact me at theqmoq_nospam@aol.com (removing the "_nospam" of course).

In the pub after work, we were talking about the sordid sex lives of celebrities. Alyson turned the thoughts to a pretty-boy soap-star that we all thought was gay even though we knew he wasn't, and I chucked in a quote from Angelina Jolie, something that she actually did say.

"She says that she went out with Jonny Lee Miller and Billy Bob Thornton," I said, "but was never completely satisfied with them because they were never dangerous with her. She said that she thinks that the first man to tie her up would be the one."

"Bullshit," said Alyson, before turning it around to something unrepeatable, reprehensible and certainly untrue about George Clooney. And to be honest, that was all I thought of it, well aside from the usual fantasies that I would be the man for Ms Jolie, of course. We all have that one.

I always flirted with Alyson, I found it easy to do so. I usually fluster around beautiful women, but Alyson was so much out of my league that I never really bothered trying to make a serious effort. The plus side of this flirting was that I could complement her when she looked good, and take the piss out of her when she said something stupid.

And I did, a few weeks later. She'd spilt a glass of water over her keyboard, and I said that she deserved a spanking for it. I honestly didn't even mean anything sexual about it (earlier that week, I'd said that a spanking was required for Geoff, a jovial bearded man from accounts).

It was what she said that rang some bells.

"I'm not Lara Croft," was what she said.

"Oh ah," I replied.

And the smile that she gave me took those bells and rang them like it was a fire alarm at a turps factory.

I decided to be more courageous. When she stubbed her toe, I said that she might want to shout the safe word. Next time we were boozing, I suggested that she liked to get drunk in public because she liked feeling ashamed. And when she sent me an e-mail suggesting that I was being forceful, I replied with a short fantasy of me leading her round the room on a dog leash.

All of this was tame, tame enough to be laughed off as jokey comments between friends.

Where it got serious was the next time we were out drinking. Don't worry, we're not alcoholics, we just used to go out a couple times a week or so, that's all. She had too much, and leaned into me in that teasy bumpy way she always does.

"You," she slurred.

"Me," I replied.

"You know what you are?"

"Soberer than you," I said, though I doubted myself after using a word like 'soberer'.

"No. You're a pervert, you know that? You want me to be your slave, don't you? Your sex slave."

"Yes, I do," I said innocently.

"Your slutty little doll, that's what you want me to be."

Now here's where I was clever. I called her bluff. "Yes, that's what I want, but I bet you're too scared to do it."

"I... I could do it," she said.

"We'll see," I replied, and left it at that. I could have pressed the point home, just as I might have wanted to squeeze her breasts until I knew them by heart, but I didn't take advantage of drunk women. As such, I thought my chance had passed.

Next Monday, I got in early, and she was there at her desk. We 'hi'ed and 'how was your weekend'ed, and she came over to me.

"I bet I'm not too scared," she said.

I'd forgotten what she was talking about. Fortunately, this made me look less eager and perverted. "Huh?"

"I could be your slave," she cooed. "I could."

Now I was eager again. "When?"

"Whenever you want."

"You serious?" I asked. She joked a lot with me, but never about things like this, and never with such a poker face.

"I'm serious."

"In that case, yes, we'll do it," I said. "Let me think about it this morning, I'll come up with some ideas."

"Okay."

I did no work that morning. I kept drafting some conditions and scrubbing them out. I wanted to surprise her with what I was planning to do to her, but I didn't want to scare her away before she started. I therefore had to make it as vague and alluring as possible. I failed, but I did enough.

"We'll do it this weekend," I wrote. "The only conditions of your employment are that you'll be my slave from the time we get to my house on Friday evening. I won't permanently hurt you physically, and I won't tell anyone or show you off to anyone. However, you will go through a lot, depending on how well you behave."

I handed it to her that evening in a cosy pub. She looked it over, and I could see her blushing. It wouldn't be her last chance to back out, but it challenged her to set her own conditions. She added "No animals" which made me laugh, but then she signed and dated it. I did so myself, and that was it. We had a contract, of sorts. It would never stand up in court, but it gave me enough to go on.

I was exceptionally coy about what I was going to do with her, but I did suggest that she may want to bring an overnight bag with some suitable outfits, when she came to work on the Friday. She offered to bring drink and M&Ms, and to me that was the sexiest thing of all.

Because it proved she had no clue as to what she was letting herself in for.

Friday came round, and it took its time about it. I kept making preparations, buying supplies and surprises, most of them 'household' items, to prove to her that I wasn't a desperate pervert. I smiled warmly at her when I saw the size of the overnight bag she brought in, and I was pleased with her appearance too.

She was wearing a tidy little business suit, black with a white shirt and trim, and jet-black stockings or tights, I couldn't tell. The shoes were moderately heeled, about three inches or so, enough to show that she was dressing to impress.

I love it when she wears black, it's usually when she gets most of my compliments. It matches her long black hair so well, and the lipstick too, for that matter. I love the colour of her scarlet lips on her pale, rose-cheeked face. It shouldn't work, the clashes were too great - white, pink, scarlet and black, but it worked, it always got me.

Today, however, I barely acknowledged her. When she hinted at her anticipation, I merely hinted back, even though I knew what was going to happen. Five o-clock just took too long to come around.

"Is this your car?" she asked, as I put the overnight bag in the boot. "Nice car. Nice and big. Shall I get in this side?"

She jabbered and yammered nervously all the way home, I answered her questions as politely as I could.

We got out the car, I asked her to leave the bag in the boot for the moment, I'd fetch it after we settled in.

I ushered her through the door, followed her in, and closed it behind myself.

"What a nice place," she cooed before the door clicked shut.

Within two seconds of the door closing, I had one hand on her breast and another down the front of her skirt.

"Wha- wait," she said, as I delved my hand into her panties. My other hand was wrapped round her chest and began to massage her right tit, squeezing it like an orange. "No, no, you can't do that yet, I haven't cha-"

"You feel this?" I said calmly, clenching down on her breast.

"Ow!" she yelped.

"You feel it?" I asked again.

"Yes, yes."

"It's mine."

"What?"

"It's mine," I said, squeezing even harder, digging a fingernail into its base. "Say it."

"It's yours," she gasped, catching on.

"What's mine?"

"My boob-"

"No, don't call them that, guess again."

"My breasts?" she guessed, incorrectly. I twisted my grip. "Ow! My tits? My tits! My tits are yours."

I then squeezed with my other hand.

"And?" I suggested.

"And my pussy is yours. Ow! My twat? My c-, no I don't use that word, owwie! All right. My cunt is yours."

"Say it again. I don't think you mean it."

"My cunt is yours, my cunt is yours!"

"Good," I said, letting her go, pushing her away. She fell on her backside and struggled to her feet. This was the first test. She was free from me, if she tried to barge past me, I wouldn't stop her, but it would be her only chance. Instead, she just stood facing me, frowning and panting. "Tell me what's mine," I said quietly.

"My tits are yours," she said, grabbing them firmly - not as firmly as I had, but tight enough, "and my cunt is yours."

"Good," I replied. "Go through to the front room."

I don't know what she expected there, but it was just a normal room, sofa, telly, plant pot in the corner. I didn't go to the expense of kitting it out with loads of gear, because I never thought it'd go this far.

I grabbed a small stool from the kitchen and got Alyson to stand on it, still in her shoes and crumpled black and white outfit. She remained there for a moment.

"Steady?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said unsteadily.

"What's mine?" I asked her, and she repeated her oath. "What else?" I added.

"My arse is yours," she said, and I nodded.

"Correct. And since that's the case, I want you to hitch up your skirt at the back, pull your panties to the side, and stick both thumbs up your arse."

"Wh-" she began, but then she smiled cutely at me. It was a compliant smile, not a defiant sneer. It was the smile of a happy slave.

I went round to her back and watched her tug up her skirt, revealing that she was indeed wearing stockings. My heart skipped a beat. I'd actively fantasised about the moment that I could see the flash of white skin above her stocking top, and now I was seeing it all. She made no show of moving her panties aside, but having done so, she seemed to stop. Watching her think how she could quickly shove her thumbs up her arse was almost as gorgeous as watching her do it. First she licked her middle finger and began to work that in, then got another finger in there. To do this she had to bend slightly and nearly tumbled off her stool.

"Careful," I said. I was genuinely worried about her welfare, of course I was. When it was appropriate, I knew that I would stick my dick up her arsehole that night, but deep down, I would never stop respecting her. I ignore things I don't respect, and the last thing I wanted to do was ignore Alyson, as she gradually squeezed the first thumb in.

The second followed quite soon, and she sighed nervously. "My arse is yours," she concluded.

"Stay like that while I get your bag from the car. While I do so, tell me what's mine, but keep your hands where they are."

"Yes, sir. My tits are yours, my cunt is yours, my arse is yours. My tits-"

I listened outside the door for a moment to check that she was repeating herself, she was, so I trundled off to the boot of the car. Her bag was quite heavy, I returned quietly to the door of the front room, where I could still hear her talking away.

"-are yours, my cunt is yours, my-"

"Okay, okay, shut the hell up, bitch."

"Yes, sir," she said, dropping her head to the floor.

I was going to open the bag and demean the contents, but I really couldn't contain myself any more. "Get off the stool, keep your thumbs where they are."

She didn't risk jumping off, she elegantly snaked one leg down to the floor, gently bending her knee. As soon as the second foot touched the floor safely, I grabbed her hair, getting a nice bunch of it in my grip.

"Ow," she yelped.

I didn't say anything, I just twisted my fist so she was facing downwards, and after checking her hands, I pulled her through the door and up the stairs. The strain was getting to her, I could hear cute little grunts from her as I led her into the bathroom.

"Neh... meh... owow... juh."

I love my bathroom. At that time, it was the second favourite thing in my house. It was knocked through from a box room, and half of it consists of a sunken bath, into which I shoved Alyson.

She was still panting, and I didn't know whether it was the exertion of being dragged upstairs by the hair, or the effort of keeping her arms in a position where her thumbs weren't tugging at her arsehole.

The third favourite thing in my house at that time was my hosepipe. It was the one preparation I'd made: I'd already linked up to the bath tap, and I quickly reeled it in. Without any delay, I turned on the tap full and sprayed her.

"Ow, YOW, it's cold," she yelped.

"Shut it," I said, pointing it at her face. She squeaked and turned away, so I tugged at her hair until she faced me.

The force of the water opened her jacket, leaving her blouse unprotected. I saturated it as quickly as I could, watching the pink skin colour seep through the see-through material. I could see her bra for the first time, and was sure I could see the nipples poking through, even from three feet away.

Her twisting "I'll give you a choice. Hard or soft?"

"Y-you should choose," she shivered.

"Ok, we'll go soft." I turned the tap down to a trickle, and shoved the end in her mouth. "Drink up. Here, take hold. You can remove your thumbs."

She drank, smiling nervously at me again, I love it when she does that. She was still smiling as I left the bathroom. The smile drained a little when I returned holding a couple of bags of flour.

"My, you are thirsty, aren't you?" I said, unwrapping the first one.

"Yes, sir," she said between gulps.

I realised I had been a fool. I had brought the flour up, partly to pour it over her - and I would - but mostly so I could cop a feel as I rubbed it into her clothes. But then I remembered that she was my slave, so I could do what the hell I liked. I put the flour to one side.

I told her to keep drinking while I took off my shoes and socks and rolled up my trousers. I got in the bath with her and stood next to her, and pulled her close to me. She could feel the erection in my slacks, but it was the carnal frottage that made her breathe heavily. I clenched hard, tugging at her blouse until a button came loose. I curved into her as I thrust a hand inside. Her breasts were quickly pulled out of the bra, and I pinched down hard on the first nipple I could find. Her eyes widened and she squeaked nervously. She began to mould her posture to mine, and though her spare arm remained by her side, I could see her wrist clenched hard. I kept her nipple between my finger and thumb and twisted, keeping my eyes on that fist of hers, watching the knuckles go white.

She kept drinking.

I bit on her neck, I couldn't kiss her with the pipe in her mouth. I snaked a leg round hers and prised her legs apart. She stumbled, lost a shoe, and accidentally spat out a little of the water that she was now struggling to swallow.

I thought of putting my hand down her skirt again, but I knew that I would literally come in my pants if I did, and I wanted to save myself. Then I thought I should just go for it.

I bent around her and turned off the tap. I took the hose from her and kissed her warmly on the lips.

"I think you're a slut to swallow that much, you know? I'm going to call you Slut from now on. What's your name?"

"Slut, sir," she replied.

Right, I thought. She'd been far too obedient, it was time to turn up the pressure. "Did you feel me through my trousers, Slut?"

"Yes, sir."

"That got me excited, you little whore, too excited. I want you to get down on your knees, unzip me, and suck me off."

"No," she said.

"What?"

"I'm not going to do that," she continued in her normal voice. She didn't move, but she wasn't saying 'sir' any more.

It was a stand-off. I could either let her be a halfway slave, but I realised that just wouldn't be right. It was all or nothing.

"You're a whore. What's mine?"

"My tits are yours. My cunt is yours. My arse is yours," she frowned.

"Exactly. And I'm not playing around." I moved my mouth close to her ear. "When you say that your cunt is mine, that means I own it, you understand? I can stick my dick right into it, balls deep if I want. Your mouth is also mine, that's why you've been sucking off a piece of plastic for the last five minutes. And now you are going to suck me off. No fucking argument," I said calmly, "no fucking discussion."

She looked in my eyes, and the frown disappeared. She was realising just what it meant not to have control over anything at all.

She dropped to her knees, the water lapped up to the hem of her hitched-up skirt, and she pulled down my zip. She reached inside, pulled me out, and wrapped her mouth around its end.

I didn't have to ask her to look up at me, she was already doing so, her eyes were warm again, and her mouth was amazing. She sucked me off like a professional (or at least a skilled amateur), deep and slow, soft and tonguey, varying the intensity. The fact that I had overcome her moment of defiance meant more to me than the past half-hour's demeaning. At the last moment I realised that she had some control over me, so I tightly grabbed the back of her head and came hard into her mouth.

"Swallow like a slut," I was about to say, but she was already gulping it down.

"Show me you've swallowed it," I next thought, but she had her mouth open and it was empty.

"Smile for me," was the next idea for me, but she'd beaten me to that too.

So naturally, having beaten me to the punch three times, I only had one option. I stepped out of the bath, took hold of her head again, and dunked her under the water.

She wasn't expecting that. She didn't anticipate that I would try to drown her. Her arms flailed about, but mine were longer so I could easily stay out of reach. Only when she started to punch the tiling did I let her up for air.

Briefly.

"No!" she yelped as I pushed down again.

It was the first thing that evening that I had thoroughly enjoyed myself at her expense. Watching her drown and writhe and bubble underneath the water, her blouse billowing and her arms trying to bash me away, I loved it. I dunked her four or five more times, for slightly shorter periods. I genuinely didn't want to damage her, just hurt her a bit.

I let her go, she got up on all fours, panting to herself. Took her thirty seconds to get her breath, her long brown hair matted across her face, too weak to brush it away. Then she curled up her lip in a tiny little smile and turned to me, saying in a sweet, angelic voice, "My cunt is yours."

I headed downstairs at that moment, I hate getting second erections after the first because they never last. I told her to get dry and meet me downstairs, telling her to wear the outfit that I would lay out at the top of the stairs.

What I left for her was a small basket containing a pack of fifty clothes pegs.

I had a motive for the delaying tactics, I wanted to root around in that overnight bag of hers, looking to see what she'd brought. She had excelled herself, leaving me plenty of choice. There were several outfits, nurse, maid, a set of leather underwear, a short latex dress. More interestingly, there were a few vibrators, some chains, padlocks, several sets of handcuffs, and three different whips. Two had price-tags on, so I guessed they hadn't been used.

I took the most lenient-looking whip and waited.

Slut knocked politely on the door and I called her in. It was no surprise that she had complied, she had applied all fifty pegs to her body. I should have been disappointed that most of them were on less painful parts of the body - most around the waist and outside of the hips, down the outside of the legs. There were about three on each breast, but far from nipples. None was remotely close to her pussy.

This pleased me. I had a speech prepared for this.

"Slut, this is disappointing. You have no shame, you're showing all your bits to the world. This won't do. Put your hands on your head and keep them there."

"My hands are yours," she said.

"Right. Hold on tight."

Her smile shook slightly as I brandished the whip.

"I reckon I could take one off with each go, what do you think?" I asked. "Don't tell me, your pegs are mine."

She found out just how accurate I could be with the first strike. I hit her square in the centre of the stomach. No pegs came off. "Maybe next time, eh?"

The second one accidentally took three pegs off her right side, and she yelped angrily. Both hands left her head, one rubbing her side, the other reaching out to stop me.

"Get the handcuffs, Slut," I said, shaking my head.

"Yes, sir," she replied. I told her to put one on. Before she put on the other one, I had her watch me put up an old chin-up bar at the top of the doorway. I knew I'd eventually use it again. I looped the cuff over the bar and clipped it on.

She was now standing in the doorframe. I told her to put one foot on each side of the base of the frame. It didn't spread her legs particularly wide, but it did put her up on tip-toe, and her arms were stretched up quite nicely. This had an unexpected effect - all the pegs that she'd put in harmless places of her body were now pinching her on tauter parts of her body. It almost seemed a shame to whip them off.

"This is going to hurt, Slut."

I hit her with a practice stroke of the whip, and that was enough to make her yell. Then I hit her properly. "Yowwww!" she cried.

I had the level right. At first, I concentrated on her breasts, and when she twisted away, I hit her back and arse. Again, I didn't go near her pegs, I had a plan this time. I wanted to make her red raw. I watched her breasts go pink, then gradually become more crimson, loving her "Ahh-tssssss, ahh-tssssss" noises as she panted, then sucked in air between her clenched teeth.

It evolved to "Ow-tsssss" and "Aaargh-tsssss", and it was the first time I thought she was turned on. I stepped over to feel her, I slipped a finger into her cunt and wiped it on her stomach. It was moist, but not dripping.

"I think you're enjoying this, Slut," I sneered, digging my fingernails into her tits. The tear that dripped from her left eye trundled down her cheek.

"Yes, sir," she moped as I clenched harder.

"I must say that I'm disappointed in the way you look naked, you know? These pegs have stayed on all this time. That must mean you have plenty of flab on you. You are a fat little slut, aren't you? A chubby little bitch."

"Yes sir," she said. More tears. I was really enjoying myself.

"Tell me about the unpleasant fat bits of your ugly body."

"I've got three ugly chins," she lied, "my arms are spindly and fleshy, my tits are floppy and drab." Nothing could have been further from the truth. "My thighs, sir. My thighs are full of cellulite and chocolate, they're pasty white and ugly. [In fact they were slender but slightly muscular, not a trace of fat on them. They were rather white though - I'd barely whipped them.]"

"Quite right, FatSlut," I said, slapping her legs hard with my hand. I noticed her moving more than she should, more than she was before. I asked her what was wrong. "Go on, you can tell me," I told her.

"I really need to pee," she whispered.

"What was that? You'd like a really large glass of water? Happy to oblige," I said. I squeezed past her, went to the kitchen and got her a pint of water and a pint of milk, for variety. I held them to her lips, kindly letting her know that if she spilt any, I'd be happy to get her another full pint. She didn't spill any, but I got her another pint of water anyway.

Now, finally, it was time for the pegs. I took a strap from her bag, and whacked hard on a stray peg near her waist. It was like slow motion, I could see it flick off her skin, leaving a white patch of pinched flesh. At the same time, she roared loudly with pain, trying to tug her arms down to her side.

"Too loud," I said. I rummaged through the bag again, and found a ballgag for her. I fastened it on, carefully making it far too tight for her to be comfortable. I hit the pegs hard, she writhed and twisted, legs kicking out at me, elbows spinning, eyes clenched when not weeping.

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and I had created it.

When the last peg sprang from an unusually fleshy part of her upper arm, I put down the whip. FatSlut's head dropped and lolled to one side. She was exhausted at the strain and drained from the pain. I placed a hand on her right buttcheek, and recoiled at how hot it was, it was like feeling a hot radiator.

"I think you've had enough pain for now," I said, taking off the gag. She did some improvised jaw exercises to get the feeling back.

"I-I don't want to be a slave any more," she moped.

"But FatSlut, you are a slave, which means you have no choice in the matter. If you did, you wouldn't be a slave, you'd just be an employee."

"An unpaid employee."

"Ok, I'll make a concession. Just hang on for a second."

I slipped past her into the kitchen and quickly found what I wanted - a large empty glass salad bowl. I placed it in the centre of the lounge, on the floor. I then turned back to FatSlut and unchained her from the bar. I was worried that she might flee, so I cuffed her wrists behind her back. Her legs were free.

"Now a while ago, you said you wanted to pee. Well, now you can, but you've got to go into the bowl."

"Wait a minute-"

"You have five minutes, otherwise you won't ever go."

I said nothing else, I just sat on the couch in the position nearest the bowl. FatSlut looked around for help that would not come, and I think she weighed up the situation and realised she had no choice. The needs of her bladder outweighed the need for her modesty.

I think the absurd situation I'd put her in got to her, she began to giggle. "I can't believe you're making me do this," she said.

She was being most insolent, but I was prepared to let it go. FatSlut shuffled with foot either side of the bowl. She crouched onto her haunches, looking down regularly but being careful not to overbalance either way.

And then she began to pee.

It seemed to last five minutes, perhaps six, it just kept coming. I've got no fetish about pee, the idea was to shame my Slut, so I found myself concentrating hard on her face as she blushed redder than the rest of her body.

"Look at me, FatSlut," I ordered, after I felt she knew she'd got the direction right.

She looked up. "My cunt is yours," she said, smiling coquettishly again. Her memory had forgotten the pain she'd been under. I'm sure she'd remember when it came again, but for the moment I had other things on my mind.

"I know it is," I said as the piss continued to fill up the three-gallon bowl. I estimated there was only two or three pints in there, though it kept coming, it kept coming. I knew she'd drunk about a gallon of fluid or so, so more was bound to come out eventually. "Though I prefer it when it's drier. Make sure you're dry when you've finished, you'll not get another chance to go tonight."

"My bladder is yours."

"What to give the man who has everything," I sneered. "Tell me when you've finished."

Another minute or so, and she was done. I unclipped her handcuffs, handed her some stockings, boots and a corset she'd brought, and told her to go upstairs, tidy herself up, fix those puffy damn cheeks of hers, and get dressed in the second bedroom, the one without its own toilet.

I told her to take her time, letting her know that it was because I had some preparations to make. Aside from being true, I knew that would scare the shit out of her.

She came down like a vision. The stockings were fishnet and elasticated, holding themselves up. The boots were spike-heeled and calf-length, the same new black colour as the stockings and corset. Ah, the corset, it pulled in her waist and moved everything up and down, turning her into an hourglass. The effect was so dramatic that I told her that I wasn't going to call her FatSlut while she wore it, it wouldn't have been true. She seemed grateful.

"Do you need to pee?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. I told her she could, in the bowl, and she did. It was a rare concession to her needs, but one that would backfire on her. This time the peeing was less dramatic but more elegant due to the scanty clothing she wore. "Thank you," she said when she'd finished.

"I'm going to punish you for one of your past transgressions, Slut," I replied, reaching to cuff her hands behind her back again. "I was most disappointed with the areas that you put those clothes pegs before. I just can't trust you to do anything, can I, Slut?"

"No, sir."

"Stand still while I do this," I said. I showed her what I was going to do. The previous evening, I'd gone to an office supplier and bought a whole bunch of those clamps they use to hold documents together, like the ones on a clipboard, only without the board. "Don't look so scared, Slut, I tried these out on myself. Well, all I did was put one on the fleshy part of my hand near the thumb, and it wasn't too bad."

I grabbed a tit, massaged it for a few seconds until I found a nice bit of flexible skin, then clamped it on. She recoiled and cried out, twisting away from me, breathing through her teeth and snorting through her nose.

Then she turned back and jiggled her shoulder so that the other breast bounced invitingly for me.

I had to acknowledge this. "Thank you, Slut."

I took the invitation, pinched her nipple and clipped another one onto it. What it lacked in symmetry it made up for in white-eyed pain.

It soon got a match of course, Slut thanked me for it as more clips came onto the breast, four on each in total.

I don't know if she had yet noticed two key things. Firstly, I had three clips left. Secondly, each clip had little holes on the handle - for what genuine reason I don't know, but I knew I was going to take advantage of them.

"Legs apart," I said. She complied instantly. I crawled beneath her, looking up like a lucky mechanic. I prodded a finger into her dampish (but not dripping) pussy, in and out, in and out until there was enough to work with. I tugged one of her labia down a little, and quickly snuck a clamp onto it. I was holding onto it, so she couldn't move away, but she did do a little erotic jig for me, bouncing and crouching as much as she could. The other one got a similar effect, slightly more crouching and yelping, slightly less jigging and bouncing.

One clamp to go.

"I'm going to give you an orgasm," I said. "You don't deserve it, but I'm a generous owner."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going to use one of your little toys here, I think." I stepped casually to her bag of tricks, and pulled out the angriest-looking vibrator I could, one of those things with a bulbous head that requires very little directional control or knowledge of g-spots.

I did a little do-it-yourself, I took some string and tied it around the head of the vibe. I then threaded the ends through the handle of the final clip and tied it tight, so any vibration would be fed directly through the clamp.

"Legs apart," I beamed. She shook her head nervously at me, and whimpered noisily.

Taking care to ensure that I knocked the labia clamps as much as I could, I rubbed her clitoris until it had had enough attention paid to it. I stopped the rubbing, and I looked to her legs for a moment, noticing how much tension there was, the tendons and sinews in her thighs were like guitar strings. She was preparing herself. So I waited, I watched her hamstrings until they eventually relaxed, and she crouched a little to work out a little cramp.

That's when I clamped her clitoris.

"Neeeaahooooo!!!" she wailed.

"Waaarrrgh!!" she continued when I let go of the vibrator, letting it swing limply between her legs, tugging down the clamp.

I got out from between her legs, and looked at her face. It was a picture, no tears this time, just absurd concentration on mine, looking to see what I would do next.

"I'll tell you this once. I want to hold off as long as you can, but you must tell me when you're going to orgasm, okay? Tell me when you're going to come, Slut, you understand?"

"Yes sir," she gasped.

"Understand?" I said, reaching a hand down to her pussy. I snaked a finger inside and scratched a fingernail around the inside of the rim. I pulled her head back with the other hand, wrenching her back into a painful yoga shape. She roared in pain, the weights on her tits bounced happily, she said that yes, she did understand, her clitoris was mine, her orgasms were mine.

"Come this way," I said, indicating a little apparatus I'd set up. It was a low-backed tubular chair, simple as that. Slut hobbled gingerly towards me, 'ow'ing and moping all the way.

The chair had a waist-high bar at the top of its back, and I bent her over it so that her face was drawn towards the seat. I told her to stay in position whilst I cuffed her legs to the base. Her wrists were fine where they were, still behind her back, no adjustment was necessary there.

"You like M&Ms, Slut?" I asked. She said she did, I asked if she wanted some, she said sure if I had any spare. I said I had some spare and she could have some, then I told her to wait where she was, I'd be right back.

It was out of her sight, the preparation of the M&Ms. That was good, because it meant that she was surprised even more by it.

"No!!!" was her reaction.

"You said you liked M&Ms," I replied.

"Not when they're in a bowl of my piss," she moped.

I placed the bowl on the seat of the chair, and pushed her face forwards. Not into the bowl, but far enough down to realise that she could reach if she bent herself over the back of the chair.

"One at a time, I want you to eat those M&Ms."

She protested briefly, but knew she had no choice. I undid the scrunchy from her hair and it flopped forwards over her face, a few strands dipping their tips into the clearish liquid. To be fair to myself, if the urine had been concentrated, then I wouldn't have been able to stomach it myself. But it was diluted enough to be odourless. This was great for me, because I would have no distinctive stench to cope with, but Slut would still know with what she was filling her mouth, eyes and nostrils. Perfect.

As she leaned in to pick off the first sweet, I turned on the vibrator. She had clearly forgotten all about it, but the head of the vibrator rattled the clamp on her clitoris, and the chair shook nervously around her. She winced, breathed and whistled for three or four seconds, and dunked for an M&M.

She was obeying. She was going for them one at a time.

Finally, it was time for me to do what I'd idly found myself dreaming about for the past three or four years.

First thing I had to do was dip my fingers in the urine. I used it as a makeshift lubricant, to work some give in her arsehole, in and out, getting groans and squeaks from her. I only used a couple of fingers for a couple of minutes, I didn't want it to be too painful, but I didn't want it to be too easy either. Took some judgement, I tell you.

She shuffled her feet and shook her bum at me just as I was about to go in, I took it as an open invitation in every sense.

I wanted to go straight in to the hilt, but I had to stall due to friction. In any case, the effect was there, I'd timed it when she was well underwater, and I could see the piss-bubbles in the bowl around the sides of her face.

I pulled back a half inch and battered again, this time going in all the way. Her head came up and she arched her back and yelped "Yaaargh!" and shook her head and sprayed piss from her wet hair like a shaggy dog in from the rain and I pushed her neck down and she got the message and dunked again. I timed it right again, she must have snorted some pee up her nose, she came up coughing and spluttering and whimpering and I had to reach forward again and tug on one of the nipple clips to get her going down again.

The vibrator was working well, it swung back and forth and occasionally bounced into unintended areas. The third time that I reached to fiddle with her tits, I was balls-deep inside her. I must have pinched a nerve, because she jerked her hips like it was the Lambada, and the vibe bounced back into me. Instinctively, I clamped my legs shut, holding the stem of the instrument, still tugging away at her clit but from a different, more intriguing, much more painful angle. For me it was quite ticklish, for her it was torture and joy in unequal measures.

"Oooooh. Oh God. Ooooh. Oh God!"

As she bobbed her head again, I didn't remind her about the warning on orgasms.

"Oooh. Aaaah. Aaaah. Oh God!"

She gobbled another M&M. I knew she would hold on.

"Aaaah. Oooooh. Aaaaah. Oh God! Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes! YES! YES YES! Aaaaaah! Nooooo," she cried.

I could feel myself getting ready to climax, so I gave her a brief countdown.

"You ready to come?"

"Yes yes, yeah!"

"Ok, you can come in five, four, three, two, one-"

"Aaaaaaa-"

I cut off her scream by leaning forwards and pushing her head into the bowl with both hands. Her arms tried to push me off her, but I was bent heavily over her, I wasn't going anywhere. She exhaled, an unwise move, bubbles emerged either side of her pretty head. I kept it there until she jerked like a dying fish, convulsing as the vibe kept up its pressure, and as I filled her arse with everything I had left. I could feel her writhing get weaker, and that was when I pulled her up.

"---aaaaaaargh!" she concluded. "Woo."

I sent her on her way that night, I couldn't do any more to her, I just couldn't. Well, I could have, I had a few ideas, but I didn't have the tools or the electrical equipment. Her slavery lasted five hours, and she was on her way back home.

I woke up the next morning, switched on the and got the e-mail from her

"Hi there! I still hurt!" she wrote. She always has a habit of overdoing the exclamation marks. "And I don't know how much I enjoyed last night, but I know I had to do it. You were brilliant, I hated and loved the things you were doing to me, and I hated and loved myself for enduring them. I've had my boundaries pushed. I don't know whether I want them pushed any further, but if I do, I'd like you to do it. Love, Alyson xxx."

I was smiling so much, I almost missed the PS.

"PS," she added. "Next time Angelina Jolie opens her fucking mouth, I'm going to imagine someone sticking a goddamn ballgag into it before whipping her tits with a cane!!! She how she really likes it!"